Scabbers
by warm brownie
Summary: Scabbers' "finest hour." Or what goes through the minds of traitor rats.


Ron thought Scabbers slept all the time. Ron knew how dreadfully old he was. Peter used to be scared that one day the Weasley's would realize how old he was getting, now almost four times the normal lifespan of a rat, but as months, and then years passed, his worry ebbed. He supposed he _was_ Scabbers now. Peter was dead to all but Sirius, and Sirius was- he wouldn't be an issue.

Peter _did _sleep a lot, for example, he slept through Ron's half-hearted attempt to turn him yellow, but he didn't sleep nearly as much as the Weasleys thought he did. He listened a lot too. Listened and learned.

Quite a bit of what he heard was little things, stupid, useless. What Fred and George had done today to annoy their mother, what sort of mess Ron had gotten himself into, how Charlie was faring in Romania. Sometimes, though, he would get a hint of the outer world, on the state of the Ministry of Magic, rehabilitation after the war, what had happened to the old Death Eaters.

Scabbers had already been at Hogwarts for a while. The first time he had went, with Charlie, he had been terrified of returning to that wonderful place where he had been truly happy for the only time in his life. His return was terrible. Charlie had not slept in the Marauder's old dormitory, but it had looked close enough. Sometimes he would wake up, and pretend, just for a moment that all that fear and intrigue and betrayal and death had been a strange dream, that any moment he would hear Remus softly turning the pages of a book, James stumbling into the shower, Sirius snoring loudly, refusing to wake later than seven. The dream never lasted long.

As the years passed by, he was eventually passed to rule-following, bratty Percy, who would've made an instant enemy of the old Marauders. Peter grew used to the new Hogwarts, the Hogwarts where he did not attend classes and plan schemes, but hid and slept fitfully. Now, Percy had outgrown him for an owl, and Scabbers was passed on to Ron, just like a set of old clothes.

Perhaps, in another, kinder world, he would've liked Ron. Though he was a bit quick spoken and awkward, so was he, and Ron had a kind of small bravery that Peter had never had. But alas, the world was not kind, and he did not care for his owner.

All he cared about was living to the next day.

When Scabbers came to a lazy consciousness, he could feel jerky movements underneath him and knew that the train was well on its way to Hogwarts.

The next thing he noticed was Ron talking excitedly to another person, probably a boy, who wasn't really holding up his end of the conversation. He made supportive noises once in a while, but never spoke. Ron didn't seem to care. He was explaining the rules of Quidditch, so perhaps the other person was a muggle-born? Not that he cared. Ron wasn't doing a very good job and Scabbers doubted his new friend would be getting much from his rant. Well, anyways, it was a good thing that Ron had found someone to talk to.

The third thing he noticed is that he was covered in paper. Candy wrappers, judging by the smell, and quite a lot of them. Ron didn't have enough money for a fraction of the eaten and uneaten food he was buried under so must've come from this new boy. Whoever he was, he was not lower-class, and generous enough to share his sweets. Ron had made a good choice, someone like that could benefit him greatly. Scabbers vaguely wondered if the new boy and Ron would be in the same house. That would be nice for them.

Ron was still talking just as fast five minutes later when he was interrupted by visitors coming into their compartment uninvited. Three by the sound of their footsteps. At least one was very heavyset.

A slow voice spoke first, with a tone that made him sound like he thought Ron and the boy were maggots compared to him. He probably did.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you is it?"

Peter stiffened. James's son. The one he almost killed. He was an orphan now, and he wouldn't remember James and Lily. Or Peter. He was to be raised by muggles, Lily's sister who sounded like she never had a nice thing to say. He was-

"Yes," Ron's friend said softly.

He was here. Great Merlin, he was here, less than three feet away from his would- be murderer. Of all the first years Ron could choose from to make friends with, he chose Harry, and now they were in the same room together.

He almost made a run for it, and the candy wrappers crinkled softly around him.

_The candy!_ It had been bought with James's money, by his _son_. He curled up into a ball, trying to ignore what was going on, trying, like he had been for twelve years, to escape the awful reality of what he had done.

However, the drawling boy spoke again, with information that perked Scabbers's ears.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle. And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Death eaters, the children of death eaters. Did they even know what their parents had done? Did they even care?

And Malfoy. That was interesting. Lucius and Narcissa's son.

_Sirius's cousin,_ whispered a voice in Scabbers's head that he quickly stifled.

Ron had laughed briefly. He though their names were humorous, when they were anything but.

Malfoy's son was quick to respond. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford," he sneered. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry said, without a pause.

There was a moment of silence.

He sounded so much like James, his voice, his inflections, the way he spoke quickly, but the words were well-pronounced, the way his tone rose in the middle of his sentences. How could he not have noticed? The words themselves, though, were of Lily. Self- defensive instead of just insulting the person in question. Cool instead of hot.

The Malfoy was the one to talk again. Crabbe and Goyle, like their parents, must be ones who only followed instructions, never very smart. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," The Malfoy said. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

No. _No._ How could he just- He didn't _understand_. James and Lily did not deserve what they got, they did not deserve to die, they were marvelous people and were oh, so careful, and he truly wanted them back. This Malfoy child had some nerve, insulting an orphan's parents, insulting people who died in the Wizarding War. Peter knew right away that he hated him.

Harry and Ron must've felt that way too. He had insulted them, after all, not just James and Lily.

There was movement, though from whom Peter couldn't tell.

"Say that again," Ron said loudly. He was probably going to get in trouble.

"Oh, you're going to fight us now?" the Malfoy child said, still acting mind- numbingly superior.

"Unless you get out now," Harry said, quite bravely and a bit rashly, sounding more like James.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

A thick hand burst through the candy, reaching for a Chocolate Frog, and without thinking about what could happen to him, Peter leaped forward and bit the hand.

Hard.

The owner, one of the silent presenses Malfoy kept near, screamed, and all movement stopped.

Peter was yanked out into the open, and he held on as hard as he could with his teeth, bracing himself for the moment when the boy would-

-and Peter was shaken. Not hard, for the boy was slow, but with intense desperation. Peter's teeth were not sharp enough for him to hang on long and he was flying. He hit the wall with a dull thud that seemed to echo in every bone in his body. He sank to the ground as he heard the three pairs of footsteps run off.

Good.

Peter knew to close his eyes, he could not see the shadow of James looking at him, not now.

He breathed deeply, steadying his breath easily, his human will was more powerful than rat emotion. His body went limp as he was picked up. He dangled rather uncomfortably by the tail, but he was in no position to complain.

"What _has_ been going on?" said a voice he hadn't heard yet, a bossy girl. She must have came in when the trio left.

Scabbers did not care. He did not want to observe, he did not want to listen, he just wanted to sleep. He abandoned all control and let the rat take over, scared, but exhausted.

"I think he's been knocked out," Ron said, lacking any concern. "No- I don't believe it- he's gone back to sleep."

And so he had.


End file.
